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“Mr. Kyle!” Juan Surtez says to me. He’s looking up at me, eyes wide. He’s smiling, but his teeth are terrible, so he looks like some sort of rodent, injured, frightened, and in a death-rage.

“Hello, Juan,” I respond. I don’t ever tell the kids about the terrible things I think about them.

Kids are sensitive.

“Mr. Kyle, what are we going to do today?” he asks me in that way that kids ask things, where all they’re really asking is if they’re going to be allowed to outside.

“We’re going to see how many highlighters Carlos can eat,” I say in jest. Overhearing Juan and my conversation, Carlos goes pale and his eyes become wet.

My class and I are in the cafeteria. There are other classes there with us. With the sound and the amount of children the room seems as if it’s about to burst. I pace along the length of the table my class sits at.

They’re all so short.

My supervisor approaches me with a clipboard in hand. She tells me that I need to take attendance of them all and I do.

A girl tells me she was born on 9/11 and I’m no longer positive of what was the worst thing that happened that day.